


Looking Forward

by kuonji



Series: Points In Common, side stories, misc. stories, AU story [4]
Category: C6D - Fandom, Wilby Wonderful (2004)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Drama, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuonji/pseuds/kuonji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third of the Side Stories for Points In Common.</p><p>In October, Duck asks Dan a question. It takes longer for Dan to ask him a question back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking Forward

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Links:  
> <http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/45170.html>

Duck is gone by the time Dan gets out of the washroom. It's not as if he'd expected any different. He knows it's a bad sign that he feels relieved at not having to face the other man across what he's sure would have been a tense, silent breakfast. But he's good at hiding and running away, isn't he? He'd run to Wilby, he'd run to the Watch, he'd run from his wife, and finally he'd attempted to run from... everything.

Well, you have to start slow. So for now, he's decided _not_ to run away from his workplace.

Briskly, he gets dressed and goes out to his car. Duck is probably halfway up the hill by now on his regular run to the Point and back. It's in the opposite direction from town, which means, unless a job brings Duck past Jarvis Video today, they won't see each other again until tonight.

Dan bangs his car door shut.

The drive is uneventful. No hecklers or trouble-makers. Perhaps that's partly due to the still heavy fog helping to obscure his identity. While he had stayed at the Wildwood, most people had left him alone out of respect for Dirk, the owner. Some jokers had caused trouble for Duck, he heard, but apparently the police had taken care of it. All in all, things had gone better than Dan would have expected.

Until the ruling came out.

Somehow, the idea of two men getting married threatened the sensibilities of the citizens of Wilby more than the idea of two men living together, which in turn seemed infinitely more discomfiting than the idea of strangers simply getting off with each other at the Watch. Suddenly, there were people carrying signs and banners, and shouting odd slogans, chanting ultimatums in Dan's face whenever he attempted to leave the shelter of indoors.

Strangest of all, despite a few notable exceptions, it hadn't even seemed all malicious. Some days, it'd had the atmosphere of a carnival or a parade. People had seemed to gather together for the fun of it. Dan had even spotted a family eating a picnic lunch of chicken and salad at the picket line outside Duck's house one morning. _"Anything for a party,"_ Duck had said, as if this sort of thing were even approaching normal.

All right, fine. So Dan -- the crazy suicidal mainlander -- is the only one losing his head, while good old Duck maintains his cool. _Fine_.

It's all ludicrous, in any case, since Dan has absolutely no intentions of marrying Walter 'Duck' MacDonald.

That might sound like an insult to Duck, but, good Lord, he'd known Val for _years_ before they had gotten married. He had gotten the official divorce certificate only just last _week_. He isn't in any hurry to bind himself legally to anybody right now, much less to a man he has known for only three months as more than a casual acquaintance, and one who seems attached to a town that Dan is fully planning on leaving behind.

Yes. He wants out of Wilby Island. He might go ahead and sign up as a member of the Coalition For The Families Of Wilby any day soon. Announcement! Dan Jarvis is planning to run away yet again. What a surprise.

Dan shakes his head at himself as he pulls into the parking lot. The surroundings of the store are quiet. Since the police started cordoning off the lot from protestors and making their official presence known, it's been easier. Making it harder for the ralliers seems to have done the trick in causing them to lose interest.

Parking, he goes through the familiar motions of opening the store. The OPEN sign is flipped to the front. A small pile of mail gets picked up from the floor. Two returned videos are collected from the overnight basket and placed on the desk. The side windows are cracked for air. He makes a quick check of the shelves to make sure nothing is amiss. Sitting down at his desk, he opens the rental logbook and notes the two returns, then places the pencil ready in the center trough of the pages. Finally, he glances through his mail.

There's a flyer for a Thanksgiving dinner for charity at Legion Hall. He wonders which optimistic soul tossed that in here. There's a reminder from the electric company to check the building insulation for winter. Well, Rick Southerby has assured him the store is fine on that front, and since heat is included in the rental, it's not really Dan's concern. The third and final piece of mail is a postcard.

It's a generic autumn scene. One corner is slightly bent. The postmark is from Vancouver, sent the day before yesterday, and there is no return address. On the message side is written: _You're nothing but a selfish coward, Dan._ There's room at the bottom and what looks like maybe the word _I_ , crossed out messily. There is no signature.

None is needed. Dan recognizes the elegantly sharp script. In fact, if he were to flip his rental logbook back to the beginning of the year, he would even see that same handwriting on some of the pages.

Face abruptly burning, Dan folds the postcard and the notice along with its torn envelope inside the flyer, and he shoves the whole pile into the bottom of the trash.

***

Val had short hair when Dan first knew her. She liked big, dark sunglasses with bold designs that she would perch on the top of her hair amidst thick brunette locks. She worked at the travel agency down the street, sending people off to Bermuda, Egypt, Italy, and Japan, or more often, the Rockies or Alaska's Inside Passage. Or Disneyland.

The first time she came to the service counter at Costco, she needed to pick up some facial cream. (This was back before they simply packaged everything in bulky plastic, making it impossible to smuggle out.)

"It's for my co-worker," she said, as he came back with it. "It's her fortieth birthday. Poor gal. I'm going to hate turning forty."

It was a slow day and Dan was bored, so they got to chatting.

He wasn't sure how their conversation eventually segued into cinema, which was his not-so-secret passion. Eventually, Val asked him out for coffee.

"It's not a date," she cautioned him firmly. "I don't need any more drama in my life right now."

So he said yes.

***

The first time Duck kisses him, it's the barest soft brush of lips in Dan's hospital room, right after he's officially discharged and he's dressed and ready to go.

Dan's dizzy, still, with the euphoric sense of being alive. But he's worried, too, about what it's going to be like outside the hospital room. He hadn't made any plans for the rest of his life, you see. Not when he'd expected it to only last a few more hours.

Duck asks him, "Are you okay?"

He replies, "Not really."

Duck looks at him very quietly. Then he sort of... drifts closer. And then the kiss is over, and Dan is left blinking. "Too fast?" Duck asks.

"I don't know," Dan replies, touching his lips tentatively.

"Okay."

***

Nobody comes in the whole morning. Dan spends the time paging through this week's edition of the Sentinel, half-heartedly checking the home rentals. Moving in with Duck had seemed like a good idea at the time. Financially practical, and, well... Dan figured getting a second crack at life entitled him to at least one act of impulsiveness.

At 1:30, he takes his lunch break.

Eddie's is the closest place, and he enjoys their pastrami. Betty and Duck have been friends for a long time. She and Ted are kind to him. Sometimes, when the deli bakery isn't too crowded, he'll take a seat in the corner and chat with them.

The only open table today is in the middle of the floor, so he takes his sandwich in a paper bag. Betty gives him a broken oatmeal cookie and a smile. He appreciates both.

On the way out, he bumps into a man who recoils violently with a curse.

"Watch where you're going, you goddamn homo."

Dan recognizes, with resignation, Shaun Deluke.

Shaun runs a stationery store in town. He makes it a point to tell people that he would never have sold his uncle's video store to Dan back when the Jarvises had moved here if he had known Dan was a-- Well. Nobody Shaun talks to has trouble filling in that last part.

"Why don't you stay away from where you're not wanted?" the other man demands. He shoots a glare at Betty behind the counter, who is tight-lipped with one hand hovering towards the phone, then looks around the bakery. "There's _children_ here, for god's sake. Don't you have any shame? You make me sick, you and that cocksucking friend of yours."

A woman walks up to them, still putting her car keys away in her purse. Her gaze lights on Dan, and her features twist in a scowl. Deluke's wife, Charlotte. She had become good friends with Val while she lived next door to them, and the two women had stayed close after she married. Come to think of it, she might still keep in touch with his ex-wife. That would explain the postcard, though Dan's not sure which event in the past three months -- his attempted suicide, his dating a man, his moving in with that same man -- precipitated Val's angry message.

She hooks her husband's arm. "Let's go someplace else, honey. I've lost my appetite."

Dan hunches his shoulders and walks the other way. The trouble with a small town is that you can't help but run into the people who abhor you.

***

The first time they kissed, it was at a New Year's celebration. They screamed the countdown together with the rest of the room, and at the stroke of midnight, she jumped up and down with her hand snagged in his sleeve. He popped a can of confetti over her head and watched it drift into her hair.

People were kissing around them. Looking at them, she shrugged and hauled him in.

It was... pleasant. She tasted of champagne and smelled of Chanel.

***

The first time they _kiss_ , kiss, they're out in the middle of a lake on a rowboat. Dan thinks maybe he should be worried at how far away the shoreline is, but Duck looks completely self-assured. Fascinated, Dan watches the muscles flex along Duck's arms as he pulls confidently at the oars. The early morning sun's beating down on them, but the wind is cool.

"Can I have a go?"

"What?" Duck wipes his slightly furrowed brow with a forearm. He's panting slightly.

"The oars. Can I try?"

"Oh. Oh, sure. Here, we should..." He unships the oars. Then he shifts forward in a half-crouch.

Dan's seat wiggles because it's loose on one side. Duck had apologized but said that he needed the steady one to row. Cautiously, Dan gets up so they can exchange places. The boat's narrow. Dan catches the scent of Duck's soap and heat-dry cotton as he slides past against him. Despite a few wobbles, everything goes well until Dan trips on a rib in the bottom and falls into his seat.

The boat tilts crazily, and there's a splash behind him.

"Duck!" He scrambles around and sits up on the bottom of the boat, which is riding much higher than it should be.

Duck pops out of the water a meter away. He blinks and treads water while wiping away the streams dripping down his face out of his slicked-down hair. He orients himself, then, with one smooth stroke, he's at the edge of the boat. Dan holds out his hand, but Duck waves him away.

"Get to the other side," he instructs. "You need to balance me, or we'll flip it."

Dan crawls to the far diagonal and turns around in time to see Duck catch hold of the edge. The boat bobs and dips as Duck uses his arms to pull his soaked body out of the water, shedding a wave of iridescence. His T-shirt is like a translucent second skin, and his jeans are...

Dan looks away. "Sorry!" he blurts, as Duck settles across from him in the wiggly seat.

"No problem. Needed to cool off anyway." Duck tosses him a grin and begins sluicing water off his bare arms. Looking down, he grimaces and begins working off his boots. He looks up right after he pulls off the first one with a loud sucking sound. "You can row if you want." He smiles encouragingly, droplets of moisture still framing his face.

Dan picks up an oar and starts to lock it in the holder like Duck had shown him. Duck gets busy stripping off his second boot and his sopping wet socks in the meantime. By the time Dan starts on the second oar, Duck is wiggling his bare toes. He groans softly in satisfaction, a low and drawn out sound.

Desire contracts, sharp-edged and hot, inside him. He's reaching out before he realizes it.

Duck's expression starts puzzled. Then his eyes widen, and his lips part slightly. Dan's hand is drawn to the other man's chest, and he only has to move a miniscule amount to the side before he feels Duck's nipple tighten under his thumb. He leans in and he watches Duck's eyes flutter closed.

Duck moans softly into the first touch of Dan's lips, and he opens eagerly to Dan's shamelessly adventurous tongue. Duck tastes of lake water at first, but after that's licked away, he just tastes of himself -- pure and smoky, like aged firewood. Incendiary.

Dan seizes Duck's head between his hands and pushes forward.

There's a soft splash, and they both jerk around to see the second oar drifting off.

"Uh-oh." It's already too far away. Dan's lunge for it only serves to rock the boat and start turning them around in a slow circle.

"It's okay. I'm wet already." With a rueful grin, Duck braces himself, then dives back in like a merman disappearing into his watery home. Shocked back into reality, Dan almost tries to catch him.

But a few seconds later, he's back. He tosses the oar to Dan, clambers back in -- and neither of them do any rowing for a very long time.

***

Duck's right about there being no business on a Monday. A group of kids come in around three o' clock, but mostly they just mill around and giggle. Dan guesses that they're here to gawk. Or maybe they're here on some dare. He waits for one of them to poke Dan in the arm and squeal. When he asks pointedly if they want anything, they burst out of the tiny building like a flock of birds.

A woman comes in just before closing time at five. She has a blue wool cardigan and a small chin to match her small voice. He thinks he recognizes her from the flower shop. She immediately picks up her selection, "The English Patient", and offers Dan a shy smile before handing it to him to record in the logbook.

Dan closes up after she leaves. He checks the shelves once more. He puts away the logbook and pencil. He flips the sign around to read CLOSED. He locks the door behind him.

The drive is just as uneventful the other way. Duck's truck is absent when he gets back, and he's not sure whether he's relieved or disappointed about that. Letting himself inside, he goes directly to the bedroom.

He dumps his wallet and keys on the dresser and lays across Duck's queen sized bed with an arm over his eyes.

He needs to leave. He needs to stop dragging around here if he's not meaning to stay.

Things have been tense. Dan notices Duck's suppressed temper, his disappointment and his irritation. He wishes Duck would talk to him so he could know what he's thinking. Some days, he's not sure if Duck even wants him anymore. What had seemed so inevitable and beautiful in a sunny hospital room is being challenged daily by the strictures of reality.

Duck's too decent to turn him out. He could just be putting up with Dan until he finally gets off his ass and makes a decision.

But maybe that's Dan's pessimistic side talking, because that can't be the whole picture, he knows. The way Duck had looked at him yesterday at breakfast...

Dan feels his own mouth curving up at the memory. It had felt so peaceful and normal, just the two of them at a table at Iggy's, enjoying toast and eggs and hash browns, sharing an order of pancakes.

Why couldn't they have that all the time?

He hears the muted rattle-roar of the truck engine, and the crackle of heavy wheels coming up the gravel drive. There's a pause while the garage door rattles up. Then a longer one until it comes back down. Eventually, keys rattle in the lock. The front door opens, then closes again. Boots clomp inside. Dan doesn't bother to call out or move, not feeling up to making conversation right now.

After a moment, the footsteps come toward the bedroom, unerringly. They pause at the doorway.

"Hey."

Dan moves his arm, finally. The late afternoon light of summer gilds Duck in his familiar white overalls. He's wearing a grey sleeveless T-shirt underneath today. A fleck of beige paint has found its way to speckle the collar area, relegating the shirt to work wardrobe only.

"Hey."

Duck comes forward and sits next to Dan's shoulder, one knee drawn up so he can look down into Dan's face. He reaches out in that deliberate, quiet way he has, and he strokes Dan's cheek with the backs of his knuckles. Dan closes his eyes to better enjoy the sensation. The mood in the room is mellow. He wonders if they're going to have sex before dinner. They haven't done that in a while.

"I've been thinking."

"Hm?" Frowning, Dan opens his eyes. Duck looks no less calm than he had before, though, so Dan decides not to worry just yet. Not more than he usually does, anyway.

"You want to leave Wilby, don't you?"

The direct question shocks Dan out of his half-stupor. He sits ups. Duck, unsurprised, simply draws his hand back and continues to look at him. "Why do you say that?" When Duck doesn't answer, Dan drops his gaze and admits, "I've been thinking about it, yeah."

"It's something you need to do?"

Dan raises his eyes to search Duck's face. He still can't read Duck very well. It seems like he might be sad. Well, that's to be expected. He's looking at his lover leaving him behind. Thanks for the flowers and the rolls in the hay, but I'm heading back to civilization. Ta-ta!

"I-- I don't think Wilby is right for me," he manages to force out, because Duck deserves the truth, at least.

Duck nods gravely. He looks down at his hand, where he's smoothing the sheet. Dan doesn't see him fidget like that very often. "I don't want to be the guy who holds you here if you don't want to stay."

Dan sighs. For a while, at the beginning, he had thought maybe... But it wasn't meant to last. Dan Jarvis isn't meant to be happy.

"I'll come with you. If that's what you want."

The words don't even make sense for a few seconds. Dan almost asks Duck to repeat them. As it is, he opens his mouth, and he sees Duck nod in affirmation.

"You would really...?"

"If you want."

"Yes. Yes, of _course_ I do." What a question! Dan puts his hands on either side of Duck's face and strokes his cheekbones with his thumbs. He feels his eyes filling. He could really have this? He could really be this lucky?

Duck looks taken aback. Then he smiles, and it's like the breakfast at Iggy's again, easy and warm between them. "Okay, then." He takes a deep breath. "I'll need some time. To pack and... get some things taken care of."

"Yes, yes. Not a problem." He's drawing Duck in, and Duck is coming to him like a dream.

He feels his future opening up in front of him.

***

Val proposed to him over an ice cream bar at the Costco food court.

"I'm turning thirty-nine next month," she said, taking a big bite off the top.

"I know. Where do you want the party?" He was picking up balloons later. Val's co-worker, Amanda, had offered to take care of invitations as soon as they decided on where to go. Steak was always a good bet with Val, but she also liked Italian.

"I'm turning forty next year, and I'm single."

"Oh." He folded the remains of his hot dog wrapper and tried to look sympathetic.

"I just can't seem to keep a man."

"You'll find the right one eventually." Seeing as he'd pretty much given up on the idea for himself, though, it was difficult to sound reassuring for her.

"Why don't we get married? The two of us?"

He stared. " _What_?"

"We get along. It could work. Hey, you can only moon about your long-lost love for so long." That had always been his excuse -- that he was too scarred by a past relationship to date again. He should have known it wouldn't stand up to inspection after so long. She threw him a hard look over the rim of her sunglasses. "Don't tell me you're some kind of ageist."

"Of course not." Val looked great for nearly thirty-nine -- but that wasn't the problem.

"I know it won't be perfect but, honestly. What ever is? The two of us, we could be, you know, normal for a change."

Normal. The thought was appealing.

"I, uh. I don't know how good of a husband I would be."

"Are you kidding? I would be a terrible wife. Come home late, leave my socks all over the place. I don't cook anything more complicated than scrambled eggs, by the way. You want to get married or not?" Her ice cream bar was starting to melt. She rescued it by a few quick licks and another bite.

"Did you, uh, want kids?" Dan asked. He wiped away the chocolate melting down her hand and then handed her the napkin.

"Thanks. And, hell, no. You?"

"No," he answered, relieved. He was pretty sure he would be a terrible father.

"Good. So?"

It was utterly surreal, but he said, "Okay."

***

The first time they sleep together is the day Dan moves in to Duck's house. Duck gives him the tour after they've dropped Dan's boxes in the entryway.

"My room," Duck says, waving his arm in the doorway. Dan walks in and looks around. There's a painting on the wall that looks like it's been there for a long time -- an impressionistic garden of flowers overlooking the sea. A chest of drawers, brass knobs shiny with use, takes up the wall at the foot of the bed. Atop it are a few pencils, a forgotten rubber band, a comb, and what looks like a small collection of travel mementos. A wire model of a beaver, a plastic coin, and a wooden bank catch his eye.

A maroon and purple woven rug softens the hardwood floor. The bedspread is a quilt of various patterns and colors. The end table closer to the window holds a simple lamp and a digital radio alarm clock that's probably the newest thing in the room. There's the usual detritus of loose shoes and dust. The board beneath Dan's left foot creaks slightly as he shifts his weight.

Duck clears his throat. "There's a guest room, too," he says diffidently.

Dan turns to look at him. The evident nerves in Duck's manner help to calm his own. He takes a couple of steps forward and sits down on the edge of the bed. "This is fine," he says, and he's astounded by his own boldness.

After a second, Duck joins him, sitting to his right, almost but not quite touching. "This feels familiar," he says, looking over at him. His eyes are bright.

Dan laughs softly. "Déjà vu all over again."

Duck wipes his hands up and down his thighs. He licks his lips. "What do you like to do?" he asks.

Westerns, historical fiction, and cheese curls, Dan thinks. But the scene is a negative image. This time, Duck means what Dan had thought he'd meant the first time he heard that question. "Oh, uh..."

Duck's waiting, his expression completely open.

Instead of speaking, Dan shifts sideways and puts his hands on Duck's shoulders. He pushes, and Duck yields, lowering backward in a controlled fall. Dan urges him up until he's lying in the middle of the bed. Then, very carefully, he lowers himself on top of the other man. After a brief hesitation, he works his legs until he's in between Duck's, spreading the man's slightly bowed knees to either side of Dan's hips.

Duck's half-lidded eyes don't leave his, but Dan's flick down in time to see his adam's apple bob in a quick swallow. He's hypersensitive of the layers of cotton and denim between them.

"I like it this way," Dan tells him.

"I like it this way, too." Duck's hands soothe down Dan's back and end cupping his ass. "See? We fit."

***

Sandra stops in at noon the next day. Dan's still on cloud nine from Duck's revelation yesterday, or else he would be more properly apologetic. He welcomes her and offers her a soda from the cooler.

"How are you doing?" he asks. He has to force himself to concentrate. All morning, he's been planning which things he'll want to box up and keep, and which part of the inventory he'll want to sell off. Sandra's as good a friend as he has here, but it's hard not to think of her as a distraction right now.

"I'm doing fine. You?"

"Never better," he answers truthfully. It's like waking up in the hospital all over again. The whole world's aglow with possibilities, it seems.

Sandra raises sculpted eyebrows. "I can see that. Do you want to come by Iggy's for lunch? The special's chicken fried steak today."

"Maybe next time," is his automatic answer.

She crosses her arms. "How come you never take me up on lunch?"

"I wouldn't want to bother you and your customers," he replies, surprised that the answer isn't obvious.

"What's the difference? People are going to stare anyway." That's true. Sandra should know. In the realm of sexual scandals, he supposes the two of them are on a near-even balance.

"Maybe... tomorrow, then?" If people stare, well... he'll be leaving soon anyway. He'll survive one meal with a woman who's been kind to him.

"All right. I'll be expecting you. You should get Duck to come, too."

"Oh, I... Really? I wasn't sure if... after what happened." Duck had been rude to Sandra just for being nice the day before yesterday, and Dan had nearly caused a scene in her diner when he started arguing with Duck about it. He feels like an idiot just recalling the incident. In their right minds, neither of them would have behaved that poorly.

Sandra snorts. "What, that? You think I haven't seen much worse? Tell him to come. I'm trying out a new recipe for meat pies. You can be the first customers to try it."

"That sounds ominous."

Sandra laughs. It's a pleasantly hearty sound from her slim, gauze-draped body. "Don't worry, Emily and I have already had it, and we're still alive. Did I mention, I also make a mean chef's salad."

"That sounds really good." Duck said he'd need a month to prepare to move, so it isn't as if they need to erase their social calendars. Dan smiles and tells her, "I'll ask Duck when I get home, but I don't see any reason he won't be able to take a lunch break."

"Great! Call me, and we'll figure out the time." She winks before she turns to go. "Ding, ding," she says as she opens his bell-less door, like she always does, leaving him chuckling.

***

"Dan! The _dog_. Get it out of here!"

Dan put his brush down quickly and hurried to head off the beagle that was nosing around their supplies. "Hey, there, boy," he said, when the dog looked up at him curiously.

Val, who had half-scurried, half-fallen off the ladder, joined them. "Whose dog is that?" she demanded crossly. "It's going to get a snoutful of paint if it tries to hang around here."

Dan checked the tag. "Next street over, looks like," he answered. He looked around, but there wasn't anyone likely to be the owner. I guess I could take him back."

Val looked like she was about to protest, but her own visual sweep up and down the street made her agree, "Okay. You need a rope or something?"

"No, I think..." The dog was friendly enough. He put his arms around it and heaved and picked it up. "I'll just carry him."

Val rolled her eyes. "Watch your back. The mutt looks like they feed him lard." She huffed a laugh and pointed at the dog's nose. "Don't you come back here again. We don't need any pawprints or whatever quaint decoration you want to share."

"Besides, all this stuff is toxic," Dan added. The beagle raised soulful eyes to his. "I'll be back in a jiff," he told Val.

"You know where to find me." She pushed her slipping sunglasses up her nose and waved her brush in a salute.

Who would've thought Dan Jarvis would ever be standing in the front yard of his house with his wife and a dog? It's frankly unbelievable. It's wonderful. He breathed in the scent of grass, dog fur, and paint primer -- the scent of a new life.

He wasn't going to mess this one up.

***

"Do you like it rough?"

Duck frowns like it's unexpected.

It's an innocent question. Okay, it's a titillating question, but seeing as he's naked in bed with his... boyfriend? lover? after an amazing orgasm, he doesn't think it's out of place.

"You, uh... I noticed you like to grab my hair." Dan gestures at his own head in illustration. "And..." He flushes a bit as his fingers go to the mark Duck's left on his chest. It won't show under his clothes, but he'll know it's there all day tomorrow.

"Sorry." Duck's voice is even, but there's a small, anxious pucker to his brow.

"No. It's fine." He thinks about it. "I think I like it."

"You... think?

Dan's still figuring all this out, really. He's still sorting out what he actually likes versus what he's used to -- what he's been able to get up till now. Cuddling is nice. Kissing is nice. Being jerked off standing is... familiar, and hot in the right circumstances. Being marked? Is not familiar. But the way he feels when he imagines going in to work tomorrow with that little bruise under his shirt...

"Yeah, I like it."

Duck rolls closer and kisses the place. "I don't want to hurt you. You have to tell me if I do."

"Yeah, of course."

"You really like it?"

"Yeah." He thinks he should be embarrassed. But he isn't. He takes Duck's hands and he puts them in his hair. "I like this, too." Even if he weren't sure before, the shiver that runs through him when Duck's fingers reflexively tighten tells him so.

Duck's eyes go a little dark. "Okay."

***

The woman from the flower shop, Mrs. Rebecca Evan, returns "The English Patient" at half past four.

As he marks off the return, he notices the three other entries for this particular movie in the last ten days.

Without thinking, he asks her, "Are you part of a movie club or something? This movie is pretty popular lately."

Her eyes open wide, and he wonders if she's shocked that he had dared to speak to her. He's a little amazed, himself. It's been months since he last struck up a conversation with a customer. Mrs. Evan laughs suddenly. "You've caught me. I'm part of a book club, and I didn't have time to finish the book, so... I _knew_ other people were cheating, too. Who else rented this?"

Taken aback by her spirited, if good-humored, demand, Dan stares back at her as he stammers for an answer. "I, ah, I probably shouldn't say."

"Hmm. Well, it's a lovely film. Not a waste of my time, at least." She smiles. "Have you seen it?"

Again, her directness disarms him. As much as he likes the casual face-to-face interaction of these small town folk, he still finds it hard to participate -- especially since the most recent gossip centered around himself has been intrusive rather than pleasurable. "Yes, I have," he answers. He breaks eye contact with her long enough to stand and locate the correct shelf for the video. He replaces it and taps the video boxes so they're even. "I've seen all of the movies in here."

"What, all of them?" Mrs. Evan goggles at the collection in the store, which is actually quite limited in Dan's opinion.

"I have a lot of time while I'm waiting for customers," he explains, embarrassed. As long as he's in full control of the selection, he tends to buy the films that he would enjoy himself.

"You must like movies quite a bit."

He does, actually, always has. He likes falling into a carefully crafted world, and he likes observing all the tricks that take him there. He even likes the bad movies where you can see where the tricks don't work. "It's a hobby of mine."

"Opening a video store must have been a dream job, then."

"Not-- Not really. But it is very nice." It is, he realizes. He'd bought the store simply because it seemed like an easy way of making a living, but he does enjoy spending his days surrounded by video tapes and posters and the smell of popcorn. It reminds him of his childhood and his life in college, back when he'd had some idea of becoming a film editor.

"Wilby doesn't have a movie club. You should start one."

Dan laughs. It's a preposterous idea. He's never started a thing in his life. And a movie club, here? Run by the town queer? (One of them, at any rate.) "Who would come?"

"I certainly would," Mrs. Evan replies promptly. "I tell you, it would be easier than finding time for the book club. Say, why don't you come to the next meeting? We can discuss the movie, since apparently some of us haven't done the reading." She pauses to laugh cheerily at herself. "We can see who's interested in the movie club while we're at it."

"Oh, I'm not sure..."

"All the ladies would love to meet you."

He doesn't believe that at all. At best, they probably would like the chance to gawk at him, just like the children do. He's about to refuse on reflex. Then he thinks about it. It isn't as if these people's opinions matter anymore. He'll be far away soon and they'll just be a group of middle-aged women chattering on an island somewhere. He might as well give them a thrill.

"All right," he agrees.

***

"I got a job. Sort of," Val announced about six months after they'd moved to Wilby.

"That's great. What is it?"

Val made a face. "Assistant to the editor of social events at the Sentinel."

"That sounds important."

"I make _coffee_." She sprawled back into the couch beside him.

"Val, you don't really need to work."

"Yes, I do!" She needed to stay busy, was what she meant. The house and the yard had been fixed up as much as they cared to, and now Val was bored.

"Why don't you just... join a club?"

Val laughed. "Can you picture me _quilting_ or something?"

The image made Dan smile as well. But he sobered quickly. Val was unhappy here. For the hundredth time, he wished he had just sold the house that Aunt Gwen had left for him. He had wanted to give Val a house, though. He'd wanted to act like a real husband. The idea of going someplace far away had appealed to him, too.

So much for a fresh start.

They would move back as soon as they've scraped together the necessary funds, though now that they'd put so much work into the house, both of them were somewhat sorry to get rid of it.

She let her head fall on his shoulder with a sigh, and he put his arm around her in comfort and smiled when she relaxed slightly against him. Next, she put a hand on his thigh. He hesitated, then ducked his head to kiss her cheek, suddenly stiff and awkward. He never knew how to respond when she did something like that. Thank goodness she rarely did.

With a frustrated sound, she stood up and headed for the stairs. "There's chicken in the fridge," she tossed back. "We can bake it or something."

Silently, he retreated to the kitchen.

***

The sexiest thing about Duck, Dan discovers, is simply seeing him in the daytime.

He'd be doing something completely ordinary, such as putting on his jacket, or reading a menu, or writing something down on the scratchpad he keeps in his pocket. He doesn't have to be looking at Dan or even know he's there.

Dan would look at him and think, _That's mine._ And arousal would flush all over him.

***

Duck's packing already. There's a pile of flattened boxes in the entryway when Dan comes home. There's an unfolded one in the kitchen outside the doorway to the storage closet with Duck inside, rummaging.

With his back to Dan, legs slightly apart and stretching those muscles to reach the top shelf, he makes a tempting target. Watching him put his life into boxes -- for Dan -- makes Dan want him fiercely. He approaches stealthily, already anticipating kissing along the salty line of Duck's neck and licking his tattoo.

As soon as he touches Duck, however, the man whips around and shoves Dan away.

He stumbles backward and narrowly avoids falling down. His hand squeaks against the tiles as he catches himself on the counter. He stares open-mouthed at Duck, who's gaping back at him with what is probably a similarly pole-axed expression. He realizes, as he rubs the dense spot of pain at his sternum, that Duck must have pulled the blow. Otherwise, he'd likely be having trouble breathing.

"Shit. _Shit_. Sorry." Duck jitters close, but he looks unsure about what to do once he gets there.

"What was that?" Dan asks, just a little bit frightened, suddenly.

"I was distracted." That's not much of an explanation. Duck touches Dan lightly on the shoulder, then withdraws again. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Obviously."

"Are you okay?"

Dan straightens and shakes himself out. The pain's already starting to fade, leaving confusion. And worry. "I'm fine. Are _you_ okay?"

"Me? Yeah. I was just..." Duck gestures meaninglessly at the box and what appears to be scattered piles of winter wear, dropped in his haste.

Dan doesn't know what to say, what he _can_ say. Finally, he settles on, "Sandra invited us for lunch tomorrow."

Relief colors Duck's reply: "That's nice of her."

"Yeah. What time will you be free?"

"How about one?"

"Okay. I'll let her know." Awkwardly, Dan asks, "Have you eaten yet?"

"Uh, no. Not yet. I made some corn soup, and there's stuff for sandwiches."

"Great. That sounds... great."

Duck's picking up the dropped clothing, dumping most of it into the open packing box. Dan watches, not quite willing to let go of the moment just yet. He notices chiseled marks on the wall just inside the door of the closet, and he lets that draw him forward, back toward where Duck is.

"Who did this?" he asks, tracing the lines in the wood panels.

Duck looks up, his gaze intimate in the close space. "Me."

The rough-hewn sailing ship is about twenty centimeters from tip to tip. There's portholes and a cannon and a skull and crossbones on the sail. About waist-height from the ground, it's polished by time.

"I was eight," Duck supplies. He herds Dan gently out again -- his hand comforting on Dan's low back -- so he can take down another stack of flannel and wool. "My dad gave me a Swiss Army knife for my birthday and I thought I'd test it out."

"He, uh, he let you do that?"

Duck shoots him an amused wince as he lowers his armful into the box. "No. Whupped me so hard I couldn't sit down for the rest of the day."

Dan pictures Duck as a child, with a round face and big eyes and mussed-up hair. Duck would have run down the beach in shorts and a pair of sandals too big for his feet, turning over stones and teasing the crabs. He would have fought off pirates -- invisible, or in the guise of other children -- with a sword of driftwood, wearing an eyepatch he made himself from paper and a rubber band.

"Did he let you keep the knife?"

Surprise flits across Duck's face. "You know what? He did. He was a good dad." It's said defiantly, like maybe people had tried to tell him otherwise.

"I bet he was."

It feels like he's passed some kind of test, because Duck favors him with a shy smile before folding down the flaps of the box. He snags a roll of packing tape off the counter and seals the top shut with efficient motions.

"Why did you stay here? After your dad passed away?"

Duck straightens and tilts his head a bit, like a birddog hearing a whistle. His gaze roams around the comfortable kitchen, then out the windows to the spacious yard and the wild scrub beyond his property line, and the ocean just visible where the setting sun hits the water. He leans on the counter with one elbow, his index finger maybe unconsciously stroking the aged tiles there. He quirks a smile.

"Why not? It's a nice place to live," he says.

Dan has no answer for that. He's afraid to ask the real question, though, so instead he says, "Want some soup?" and waits for Duck's nod.

He attempts to cover his discomfort with the rattle of earthenware bowls and cutlery. Behind him, Duck labels the box with a thick permanent marker. The squeak of pen on cardboard says loudly in Dan's head: _"Then why are you leaving?"_

***

It was some stupid argument, just like every other stupid argument they've ever had. He couldn't even remember what had started it this time. Val slammed out of the house and took off, maybe for Charlotte's, or some other sympathetic neighbor who would curse Dan's name with her for a while.

What had made Dan think this could ever work, anyway?

Suddenly, he was angry.

He didn't like to make choices. That's what their fights always came down to. He didn't care whether the kitchen was painted green or yellow. He didn't care how Val did her hair, or which air freshener she bought, or where they went for dinner. Val had known that about him before they got married, but what had been funny in a friend was somehow unbearable in a husband.

It didn't help that the one decision he had made in their marriage -- to move here to Wilby -- had turned out to be a disaster.

The real problem was, Val missed her clubs and parties and midnight movie theaters. She didn't give a fig anymore for the sunrise over the ocean or the cookies from the neighbors or the Christmas carolers. What had seemed so charming on their first visit was now provincial and boring.

It wasn't Dan's fault that he couldn't make more money and get them out of here. It wasn't his fault housing prices were down here but up back in B.C.

If Val wanted to blame somebody, she should blame herself for suggesting they get married in the first place. He'd warned her, what a terrible husband he would be.

He grabbed his keys and left the house himself. He'd heard about a place for men like him to go but he'd never dared to check it out. Now, as long as he was being punished for a despicable representation of a man anyway, he might as well prove it true.

***

Dan likes sucking cock. He likes that weight in his mouth. He likes that thick, heavy odor and the viscous taste of pre-come. He likes to explore and tease the little folds of skin up and down a good length until arousal stretches it taut. He likes opening his mouth wide and taking in a man's musky balls, one at a time. It's a wonder that he's never caught anything from a stranger, since he can't stand to have anything between them.

Occasionally, he thinks about how shameless and dirty he must look when he does this. Even that secretly turns him on.

Back when he and Duck had met that one time at Wilby Watch -- in that amorphous prehistorical other timeline -- he'd done this for Duck. He remembers being excited by the look of Duck's long cock in the shadowed moonlight, narrow enough for him to let his thumb roam free of his fingers around it, thick enough for a good mouthful. Duck's taste, mixed with the scent of the ocean and the coastal scrub trees, had made his heart beat faster even amid the usual lethargy of afterglow.

He was disappointed when Duck pushed him away, dressed, and ran out of there. Practical, of course. That's the way Duck is. He never saw Duck there again, but he always kept an eye out for the blond, sinewy man with the talented hands.

It isn't long after they start having regular sex together that he realizes he can now indulge himself as often as possible, and Duck's perfectly willing to oblige. Sometimes they're both on the bed, with Duck laid out flat. Sometimes Duck's sitting on the edge and he's on the floor. Sometimes he takes Duck right against the inside of the front door, squatting on the balls of his feet to protect his knees.

Duck's overalls make things more aggravating than otherwise, but it's worth the wait.

Every time.

***

Dan has "Urban Cowboy" on, mostly for the soundtrack as background noise, while he rechecks his pricing lists. He'll put his whole inventory on sale in a few days. Whatever's left over will go to Rebecca and the movie club to do with as they see fit. The first two meetings had been an unexpected success.

He'd been right to start with: Most of the members had joined out of curiosity to meet Dan. On the other hand, they had watched the movie, too, and the discussion had gone well. They'd insisted on making him president, but he's letting Rebecca handle most of the work in preparation for when he's gone. He wishes her well.

The last three weeks have been like a dream. Dan sometimes can't believe it's happening. After three years of misery, he can finally leave this island behind, and not only that, he's taking someone with him -- someone sensual and reliable and kind, someone whom he clearly means something to. The only way life could be any better than it is right now would be if they were to leave tomorrow morning instead of a week from now.

Duck needs the time, though, of course. And, practically speaking, Dan needs to tie up his own loose ends. They also need to plan their future together. He'd given the house to Val, but he'd kept what he'd saved up for their moving expenses. Duck's said he can afford a place to start. He has friends in Toronto who will help. They'll figure out what to do from there.

Dan can't wait to be anonymous again.

"Ding, ding." Dan folds over his list quickly and shoves it under the logbook.

"Hi, Sandra. Is it lunchtime already?"

Lunch with Sandra has become a regular thing, often with Deena, just as often without. Emily joined them once, though Dan thinks it was only out of politeness. He'll be sorry to say goodbye to Sandra, he realizes. But that can't be helped. He'll be too glad to be saying goodbye to everything else, wouldn't he?

"Business was slow today. You want to eat here or on the green?"

She always asks that. _"Here,"_ he almost says again, but he's feeling so good today, and the weather's so fine. He glances up at the TV monitor in the corner just as Bud kicks the heels of his cowboy boots in the air. "What the hell. Let's go out."

Sandra's surprised pleasure makes him smile in turn. He gets out his wallet to pay her back, then turns off the video and closes up the store, his companion watching him with a bemused expression. Each with a sandwich in hand, they take the short walk to the green in front of city hall. There's plenty of shade under the grove of beeches there.

"It's nice that you're finally settling down."

Freezing in the middle of unwrapping his roast beef on wheat, Dan asks, startled, "What do you mean?"

"You seem more happy lately."

"Oh. Well. I suppose I am."

He takes a big bite, filling his mouth so he doesn't have to say any more.

***

The last time he went to Wilby Watch, he didn't come home until close to four in the morning. Val was at the doorway, waiting for him with wide, frightened eyes.

"What _happened_ , Dan? Are you all right?"

He'd called her from the station around midnight, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to tell her why he was there.

The cops had kept him in a cell with two other men long after all their paperwork had been completed. From their grins and clearly audible jokes, he could tell it had been deliberate.

"I'm going to take a shower first," he told Val. He hadn't even gotten off tonight, he thought bitterly.

He'd never expected something like this to happen to him. He didn't have good luck, of course, but he'd never had spectacularly bad luck like this before either. He'd thought himself a basic nonentity to everyone, including whatever powers of fate controlled his life. Well, that was going to change, wasn't it? He knew this town well enough by now to know that his night's adventure would not go unnoticed.

He couldn't put it off indefinitely. He owed it to Val to let the news come from him and not the neighbors or, god forbid, the newspaper. Wearily, he stepped out of the bathroom, dressed, and sat Val down in the living room.

She was sobbing in fury by the end, three books and a lamp having made dents in the wall behind Dan's head.

"Just a few more months," she choked out, her voice too hoarse to scream anymore by that point. "Just a few more goddamned months, and we would have been out of here. And instead, now I have to listen to this whole _fucking_ island call me a fool -- just because you couldn't keep your _dick_ in your pants. I hope it _falls off_."

He bowed his head.

" _Say_ something, you bastard! For once in your miserable life, be a _man_."

He couldn't. She was right. She was absolutely right. What could he say?

She made a strangled-sounding screech. "I thought my first ex-husband was bad. But, you! God, I hope you rot in _hell_ , you sonuvabitch."

It should have been completely expected, but he flinched at the word 'first'. Then he nodded quietly, took an overnight bag, and left the house. By full daylight, he was locked inside a room at the Wildwood. By noon, Val had gotten Amanda's promise of couch space in her apartment until she could find something better.

***

It takes three weeks before Dan figures out that he likes to be held. Duck's stroking a hand up and down his arm one night, just before falling asleep, when Dan gets a vision in his head of Duck simply... putting both arms around him. That thought is so instantly desirable that he starts fully awake.

Duck, noticing, takes his hand off and asks him, "You okay?"

"Do you think you could...?"

He doesn't have to talk much around Duck. He just turns around, his back to Duck's front, and pulls Duck's arms around him like he'd wanted. Duck's a little awkward, like maybe he's not used to this either. Once they're settled, though, he nuzzles the back of Dan's neck and sighs. "This is nice," he says.

Dan feels himself drifting to sleep. "Yeah."

***

"Suzanne's Mike said he might join. It would be nice to have some men around."

Dan looks up from the ordering catalogue and raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, stop. I _know_ you're a man, but... you know."

Dan shrugs, smirking. He checks off another title on the catalogue. He won't be making any new orders for the store, of course, but he's thinking that maybe the movie club could maintain its own library. He'll have to talk that over with Rebecca. It's going to be hard telling her that he's leaving. He's going to miss her and the club.

"You were saying... Mike?"

"Her husband."

Dan pictures Suzanne, a young, very slim, excitable woman with blonde curls. She had sat to the right of Rebecca at the book club meeting and had been one of the first to raise her hand when Rebecca suggested the movie club. He'd chatted with her a bit after the meeting two days ago. "Her husband's a police officer, isn't he?" he asks, somewhat nervously. Despite their help with the Coalition, he hasn't had the best experiences with police on a personal basis.

Rebecca snorts. "Oh, you don't have to worry about Mike Olsen. He thinks Officer Buddy French hangs the moon and the stars at night, and Buddy's been speaking out for you since day one."

"He... has?"

"You didn't know? Why, Buddy's the one what gave Brad and Shaun a talking-to for messing up Duck's house. Made them mean as wet cats, but at least they don't step over the line anymore."

"O- Oh. I didn't know that, actually." As far as he can remember, Dan's never said more than two words to Carol French's husband, though if pressured, he thinks he would recognize him on sight. Duck has certainly never told him they knew who vandalized his house that time before Dan moved in.

"Hm. Well, it was darn fine of you boys to make him that casserole when he sprained his ankle." Rebecca's giving him the hard eye, and Dan blushes.

"I, uh... Yeah, it was really bad. I hope he's doing better now." Vaguely, he recalls asking Duck about the second chicken pasta in the oven. Duck had told him he was taking it to Buddy the next day because the man had been injured and couldn't get out of the house.

 _Duck's friend_ , he'd thought, and dismissed it. Just like he'd used to dismiss all the members of Val's private circle.

"I'd better be closing up." He looks ostentatiously at his wristwatch. When Rebecca looks like she's about to say something else, he adds, "Duck will be waiting for me." Her expression goes sweet and understanding.

"All right, dear. See you on Wednesday night."

He makes the usual goodbye noises to shoo her out. Then, since it is in fact only half an hour to his usual closing time, he decides to head home early.

One more week, and he'll be gone.

Somehow, that thought doesn't sound quite as good as it had yesterday morning.

Duck's truck is in the garage when he gets back, which is unusual. With the good weather they've been having, Duck's been working later, finishing up the open projects he's got. Even more unusual, Duck's leaned up against the back of the truck, smoking. He looks up and waves as Dan pulls into the drive. He has a sheaf of yellow lined paper in his hand, covered with writing. Maybe it's something from work.

Or it's a list of things for the move.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Dan parks his car on the lawn. The spot is marked out by yellowed grass. By the time Dan gets out of the car, both the papers and the cigarette are gone, and Duck's coming to meet him.

"You're home early." There's a soft look in Duck's eyes. It makes Dan want to... he's not sure. Do something incongruously romantic, like take Duck slow dancing at the Crystal Ballroom. He settles for cupping Duck's jaw and kissing him on the cheek. He knows Duck will brush his teeth or chew some gum before he kisses Dan back after smoking. Duck strokes his face in return and smiles that same sweet smile.

"How was your day?" Dan asks him.

"Not too busy. I finished the Southerby's shed today. That's the last job. I'll talk to somebody about renting out the house tomorrow. Then it's just packing."

"That's great." It is, of course.

"You have your stuff together yet? I got more boxes from the docks today. You'll probably only need a couple, though."

Dan hasn't packed a single scrap, he realizes. In his head, everything he owns is still in the trunk of his car at the Wildwood. In reality, he knows, they're scattered all over Duck's house. He still doesn't have very much, but it's going to take a while to get everything sorted out and ready.

"You're right. I'll start today."

They go into the house, Dan following Duck through the door. He scans the living room for his things, and immediately he finds his video tapes and books on Duck's shelf, lonely without even Duck's modest collection to keep them company. An afghan on the couch is one that he bought at the Summer's End festival. He wonders whether he should take it, or leave it for Duck's renters.

"You want chicken wings for dinner?" Duck asks from the kitchen. "We've still got some potato salad left over."

"I'll make dinner," he hurries to say. "You should go wash up and rest a while." It's been a long time since he last cooked, hasn't it? Why is that?

Duck gives him a quizzical look but hands over chef duties readily. Dan hears the shower come on as he's lining the baking pan. After he puts the chicken wings in the oven, he looks around and finds the cookbook his mom gave him when he first left home, along with his coffee pot, and the sprig of dried flowers he'd kept from the hospital.

Dinner is quiet and nice. The peaceful mood of earlier never quite dissipates.

"You want to watch a movie?" he offers after they've finished cleaning up. Duck smiles.

"How about 'Urban Cowboy'. That's a nice one." He grins now, and Dan expects it when he adds, "Travolta's arse always gives me ideas." Duck can be a little sappy sometimes, but mostly he's a silly, crude guy. Dan likes that. He knows how to act around Duck.

"I just watched that at the store yesterday." He pushes Duck back against the counter and pins his forearms with his still damp hands. "And maybe I don't _like_ you getting ideas about other people's backsides."

Predictably, Duck twists his arms free and goes for Dan's hair. Dan spreads his stance a bit so that they can kiss comfortably. He thinks that Duck might not have dated anyone taller than himself before. The first few times Dan kissed him against a wall, he'd looked kind of stunned afterward. _"That was good,"_ he'd said once, as if confused how it'd worked out.

Eventually, Dan pulls Duck down on the couch in the living room, and they neck lying down for another good fifteen minutes. When Dan comes up for air at one point, he sees that soft glow on Duck's face again, and a wave of tenderness fills him.

"What do _you_ like?"

He's never asked this. Why has he never asked this?

Duck gives him a look that says very clearly, _Are you kidding me?_ and answers, "You. Everything. Touching you. Kissing you. Being with you."

Yeah, Duck can get sappy, too.

He stills Duck's roaming hands by holding his wrists. "But what do you like best?"

Duck pulls his hands away and props himself up on his elbows. He stares down at Dan, not speaking, his gaze questioning.

Something comes to Dan, memories of Duck always slipping away, always pulling back. "You don't like that, do you?" he asks. To illustrate, he reaches up and encircles Duck's wrists again, very lightly.

Duck frowns but doesn't dislodge Dan's hands this time. "No," he agrees after a long pause.

"Okay. We won't do that again." Duck's frown deepens, getting stubborn. "I want to make you feel good. The way you do, me."

"You do make me feel good," Duck replies, smiling in an indulgent way. "You already know what I like." He sits up enough to straddle Dan's hips and moves against him, sending a delicious spark through Dan's body.

He thinks about that. He thinks about what he already knows.

"I think... you like to touch," he says, because he's picturing Duck's sensitive, capable hands, edging a corner with a brush, dusting sawdust off a board. He's picturing a little boy making illicit doodles with a Swiss Army knife, one who's loved but doesn't have a mother or siblings. He probably doesn't even know, himself, what he missed.

Dan had grown up with two affectionate parents, a younger brother who adored him, and an older sister who looked after him. What he wants most now, when he's feeling alone, is to be held and coddled and told that he belongs again.

Duck wants... (maybe) to reach out and feel.

"Am I wrong?"

As if utterly baffled by the question, Duck merely stares.

"You don't think about this, huh?" Just does whatever feels good. How like a man. Dan feels a snicker erupt, which surprises an answering laugh from Duck.

"I guess not." Duck cocks his head. He shifts his weight onto one arm so he can free the other hand to place on Dan's chest. He rubs there for a while through the thin cotton of Dan's shirt. Then he deliberately unbuttons the front, leaving the sides to whisper loose, and slides his palm over Dan's skin. He doesn't hit any truly erogenous zones, but Dan's breathing hard just from the slow, concentrated exploration of those calloused fingers. That, and the look on Duck's face.

How had he ever thought that this man was hard to read?

"I-- I think you're right," Duck stutters.

Dan feels like his heart is breaking. He'd always thought that was romantic hyperbole, but that's really what it feels like. He puts a fist to his own chest to hold it together, trying to breathe through painfully tight muscles. Duck puts his hand on top, lacing their fingers together, and Dan can't hold back the question anymore:

"You don't want to leave Wilby, do you?"

Duck's hand tightens on his. His face sets. "I'm going with you," he insists. "I think we have something good together. I don't want to lose that. I want to try. Don't you?" Despite the question, he sounds demanding rather than asking.

So the only answer has to be, "Yes. Yes, I do." He takes a deep breath, feeling the knot impeding his lungs unravel slowly. "Couldn't we... Could we try _here_? Could we stay? Do you think?"

Duck shakes his head. Not a denial, but a gesture of confusion. "What?"

"Wilby. We could stay." He's gaining confidence now, thinking about Sandra and Deena and Rebecca and Suzanne and Betty and Ted and Mike and Buddy. "I could stay. Hell," he realizes. "We haven't even told anyone yet that we're leaving."

"I thought you wanted it that way. Go away quiet."

"No, I was just being an _idiot_."

Duck's still frowning. Still not understanding. "You don't have to. I lived on the mainland for a long time. I've got friends there. I can handle it. I don't want you to resent me for making you stay."

Dan frees both hands to frame Duck's face with them. "I _want_ to stay. Let me stay?"

The words seem to be finally percolating into Duck's mind. His expression changes from confusion to disbelief. "You mean that?"

He can't believe, himself, how long it took for him to figure it out. "God, you're going to have to unpack all those stupid boxes... I'll help you. Don't do it alone. Please?"

"Shit. You mean it."

"Yeah, I mean it."

"You won't...?" Duck pulls Dan's hands away and clenches hard around his fingers, making Dan gasp. "If you change your mind, you have to tell me. Okay?"

Dan takes a deep breath. The last of the tightness eases away. "Okay. I will."

Duck's fingers loosen gradually, and he lowers his forehead to Dan's chest. He's laughing. "Fuck. _Fuck_. I can't believe you. You _arsehole_."

"Yeah, that's me. Grade A asshole. You want to start unpacking now?"

Duck growls. " _No_. We'll do that tomorrow. Come on." Rolling swiftly to his feet, Duck yanks Dan to standing with almost no seeming effort and drags him to bed.

***

It's a long time later -- after he and Duck have unpacked everything and restored their home to the way it should be, after the fifth meeting of the movie club, after Duck's back to doing three jobs at a time again and Dan's back to cooking dinner part of the time -- when Dan finds it again.

He's dumping the trash can from the video store into the public waste container. It's filled to the brim with plastic wrap, packing material, and sundry articles, but the waste container is two blocks away, and Dan is lazy.

When he's done, he notices a rectangle of color still stuck against the side of the metal can. Prying at it, he realizes that a corner of the stiff paper had wedged under the seam of the top edge. He recognizes it as the postcard he'd received weeks ago. Sadness and pain -- and shame -- ambush him as he reads Val's words again.

_You're nothing but a selfish coward, Dan._

He had almost proven her right. Almost. He's not going to be selfish anymore, though. He's going to try like hell to stop running away, too. He knows he won't always succeed, but just standing his ground this once had felt so fantastic that he's hopeful he will be able to do it again and again.

If he ever leaves Wilby Island for real -- either with or without Duck at his side -- it won't be because he's running away. This much, he knows for truth.

"I'm sorry, Val," he sighs. For once, not feeling awkward at all, he kisses her. At least, he kisses what he's sorrowfully sure are her last words to him. "Thank you."

He tosses the postcard into the waste container and he doesn't look back.

END.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, you might try these:    
>      [Duets](http://kuonji14.livejournal.com/40260.html) (Due South), by kuonji  
>      [Over](http://starskyhutch911.livejournal.com/307146.html) (Starsky & Hutch), by kuonji  
>      [Day Of Rest](http://x-tricks.slashcity.org/due%20south/ww-day%20of%20rest.html) (Wilby Wonderful), by xtricks  
>      [There Is No Language In Our Lungs](http://spuffyduds.livejournal.com/174941.html) (Wilby Wonderful), by spuffyduds  
>      [Want](http://ds-flashfiction.livejournal.com/642034.html) (Due South), by dessert_first  


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